


Children of Yesterday

by blackravenswing



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Griffin Family Feels, Leadership showdown between bamfs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackravenswing/pseuds/blackravenswing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Exodus ship carrying Diana Sydney and her crew of rebels has landed successfully on Earth, creating tensions for the 100 and their new society. If the delinquents are to retain their ground, their laws, and their freedom, then they will need an insurgent on their side, as well as a Princess... but he's running bloody late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [viansian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viansian/gifts).



> Drew, this fic is irrefutably for you. It would not be published if you hadn't (quite literally!) bribed me to share it with you. Thank you for your constant support, feedback and sunshine <3

* * *

**_It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are._ **

E. E. Cummings

* * *

**[ Clarke]**

_It's not what she was expecting._

 

The call had come through in the coldest lull before dawn, the radio crackling to life after hours of strange silence from the Ark; hissing forth the message they had all been waiting to hear.

 

It was Raven who came running, who found Clarke where she lingered at the entrance to the camp; feet frozen to the spot from where she had first seen the Exodus ship arcing brightly through the sky. She had not moved since. Had hardly spoken since. Seeing the way her body swayed - feet fused soundly to the ground of camp, torso leaning forwards towards the wildness of the forest - the others couldn't help but wonder whether she preferred to stay or flee... A few strides further down the wall, settled so resolutely into the darkness he was little more than a shadow himself, her co-leader observed all in silence. His posture may have been careless but his eyes were pitiless in their intent, offering no moment of reprieve in which Clarke might lose her nerve and turn to run.

 

' _Clarke._ '

 

They had risen and turned in unison at Raven's heralding cry, shoulder to shoulder, awaiting the inevitable.

 

'You mum's on the radio.' Even in the gloom, they could see the gleaming of her grin. 'She's here Clarke, she's on Earth.' Slender hands reached forward, disinhibited by excitement, and gripped the Princess' arms. ' _They made it_.'

 

 

 

And made it they have. Cresting the rise of the nearest hill, another three hundred aliens are trudging wearily beneath the unfamiliar weight of Earth's gravity; homing in like missiles towards the kingdom of their children.

 

And Clarke is seriously considering not letting them inside.

 

Even from this distance she can see the warning signs. There is no Chancellor Jaha. Or Vice Chancellor Kane. No uniformed battalion of the guards and medics that they were promised.

 

The crew is motley, and battered, with a haunted wildness to their faces that speaks of something more than wonder for a strange new world. And leading them is a woman, with flaxen hair and sharp flint for eyes.

 

Ex-chancellor Diana.

 

 _No. It's not at all what she was expecting_.

 

 

 

The adults leading the group have their own guns strapped across their backs. Their boots hit the ground with a heaviness that marks it, _claims it_ , like they own this world already.

 

 _Threat_.

 

What Clarke feels from them is threat.

 

She looks for Bellamy, forgetting for an instant that he isn't there. That they agreed they'd do this separately, for diplomacy's sake. The first exodus ship was meant to be captained by Councillor Marcus Kane, a military man with an unfailing belief in the sanctity of law. (A man whose very name left a bitter burn at the back of Clarke's throat.) Together they had agreed, however begrudgingly on Bellamy's part, that the new arrivals would be better met by the least criminal among them; ensuring a smooth negotiation before introducing the likes of the man who shot Chancellor Jaha... In lieu of this, Bellamy was coordinating a hunting party in the outer forest to boost the camp's supplies in preparation for so many hungry mouths. And now, famished bellies or not, Clarke was recognising the mistake in their decision.

 

Her gaze darts again to the side. Finn is there, radiating calm expectancy - and she is hollowed near to shaking to recognise the disappointment that brings. _For he does not see what she sees_. No, he does not sense the sickening drop of yet another power shift shunting into play. Indeed, she feels foolish for her suspicions when she looks into his eyes. _What has become of her, that this is her first thought?_ And yet… before she even fully comprehends her actions she's turning her head, sifting through the crowd until her restless eyes capture Octavia Blake's... And that narrowed blue gaze is everything she needed to see.

 

Because Octavia senses it too, _the wrongness_.

 

_Oh, so like her brother._

 

All it takes is a blink from Clarke and the younger girl starts forward grimly.

 

'Something's off.'

 

The rifle swings on her shoulder like a judgment bell.

 

Clarke can't bring herself to answer. It wasn't a question anyway.

 

Instead, with lowered voice she urges, 'Get your brother back to camp.'

 

Nodding brusquely, Octavia begins to back away, but at the last instance Clarke lunges after her and secures her fingers around the barrel of the gun.

 

'I might need this.'

 

She tries to smile, but it cracks tight and bare as the grin of a skull. The smooth metal of the gun makes the sweat on her palms seem endless as a river.

 

'What are you doing?' Finn's voice is an urgent whisper as Octavia sprints for the forest empty handed. 'You don't show up at a welcome party with rifles.'

 

'Go with Octavia and help her track the others.'

 

His fingers cling to her shoulder like they can hold back war. (Maybe they're all finally learning that war _is_ tangible. War is people.)

 

'What's going on?'

 

'We need them back. _Now, Finn_.'

 

And something in her eyes must strike even deeper than his principles, because he sets them aside and he _runs_.

 

She swipes her hands upon the tattered fabric of her shirt and when she re-takes the rifle her grip doesn't falter. The marching shadow on the hill surges to a halt and she strides forward to meet it.

 

 _This isn't a welcome party. Not anymore_.

 

 

 

Diana Sydney's pale grey gaze takes in everything as the teenagers approach. She notes their numbers, their weapons, their formation - behind Clarke. As they draw near enough for words her mouth smiles in greeting, but Clarke fancies that her eyes do not.

 

'Clarke Griffin.'

 

So she knows who she's dealing with.

 

'Abby will be overjoyed to see that you are safe.'

 

Clarke flinches. _Abby_. The name rolls so easily off this woman's tongue, yet it triggers a landslide inside of Clarke.

 

 _Abby_. _Mother_.

 

Her eyes drag forward, angrily, beseechingly, searching the new arrivals for a face she both longs and dreads to see.

 

The sweat beads anew on her palms causing the rifle to slip and she shakes off the premonition of surrender. Already she feels her resolve shudder, her footing quake. Was she foolish to think she could lead in this? There is so much emotion here, so many shadows to see through. Far from impartial, far from an equal, she is afraid, small... _Somebody's child._

 

'I don't suppose you remember me,' Diana continues in the trail of silence, 'you were just a child when we last met. I'm-'

 

'Diana Sydney.' She finds her voice, and is emboldened by its strength, its sharpness. 'I know exactly who you are. And I know who you're not. Where is Vice Chancellor Kane?'

 

The woman tilts her head, exuding calculated amusement in the face of a child's hostility.

 

'There was a shift in plans,' and her voice is patiently calm. 'I was re-elected to the Council in your absence, and… gifted with the honour of leading the first ship to Earth. My people are yours now Clarke, we are here to help.'

 

Clarke smiles thinly.

 

'Why have we lost contact with the Ark?'

 

'We departed on the brink of major system failures.' The woman bows her head briefly, momentarily overcome. 'More exodus ships were being prepared but… _we may well be the last Ark survivors_.'

 

Clarke feels the breath freeze in her lungs. Something is wrong, she is sure of it. The Ark was losing oxygen, yes, but the relief granted by the departure of two exodus ships, not to mention the horrors of the Culling, should have bought them months’ worth of time. What else had occurred in her absence from the sky?

 

The two women lock eyes and Clarke hides none of her skepticism, letting the sharpness of her suspicions strike through. Diana takes note, that much is certain, but it is not enough, not nearly enough to drag the self-assured tilt from the corner of her eyes. What Clarke really longs for in this moment is something threatening of her own. She can clip her smile and ice her words as ferociously as she likes, but the truth is she is a medic, a member of the privileged clutching a weapon she barely knows how to use. A rule follower, a rule maker... not a rule breaker. And Diana knows that. Diana is counting on that.

 

What Clarke needs is something unaccounted for; a grenade to unleash before the pressing tide of these new invaders. Someone who is her opposite...

 

 _And he's running bloody late_.

 

Murmurs intensify behind them as Diana's shocking announcement leeches through the crowd. _We_ _may well be the last Ark survivors._ It is the sound of children giving way to fear: of families lost forever, of less help than they had hoped for. Clarke opens her mouth to reassure them - _her people_ \- but Diana's voice rises dismissively above her own, brimming with calm confidence.

 

'Do not let despair overcome you! You have done so well, proving yourselves survivors against the most impossible of odds, and you _must_ know that we are all so incredibly proud of you.'

 

Slowly, her footsteps bring her forward and the adults behind her press upon her heels; their shoulders broad, their minds filled with knowledge. Here to share, here to help.

 

'You have been our salvation. _You_ have brought us back to Earth. Now it is our turn to be yours. You have suffered much, shouldered burdens you should never have had to bear under the ruthlessness of Jaha's old rule. But we are here now, to protect you.'

 

She is shoulder to shoulder with Clarke, and she turns her head at this proximity, leveling her with the full force of an infinitely merciful gaze.

 

'You don't have to do this by yourselves anymore.' The words are directed to all of them, but Clarke feels as though they are meant for her alone, winding cool capable fingers through her mind.

 

 _Relinquish the burden, let go, let go,_ they whisper.

 

'Let us ease your struggles.' Motherly hands settle benevolently on her arms. 'You are no longer alone.'

 

And the iron in Clarke's resolve starts to sing as it melts.

 

 

' _She was never alone_.'

 

The crowds murmur his name as they part for him.

 

_Bellamy. Bellamy. Bellamy._

 

She doesn't turn to look with all the others, swallows her relief and stands like she always knew he would make it. Instead she watches Dianna; observes her annoyance for the disruption trickle into guardedness, as she catches the echo of his name.

_Bellamy_.

 

She can only imagine how he must look, free from his cage, wild from hunting, dragging his history like an axe through the dust behind him.

 

She watches the adults _unsettle_ , for the first time before her eyes. She watches. And she waits. And he finds her.

The briefest flick of his shoulder against her own is the only greeting that he gives, and the brimming chaos of his presence is, for once, a welcome pressure against her back.

 

'Sorry I'm late,' are the words he chooses, carefully chipped from the infinite mine of his sarcasm.

 

'And who are you?' Diana plays her card, a jab to his past insignificance.

 

'Bellamy Blake.' He rolls the words off his tongue like weapons, awake to the meaning that his own name holds. 'But I'm sure you already knew that.'

 

There is a sharpness to Diana's gaze now that even she cannot hide, yet beneath that is something even keener, almost eager; a _measuring_ of sorts. Like she cannot decide whether she has been handed a knife by the hilt or the blade.

 

'And what role do you play in this camp, _Bellamy Blake_?'

 

Clarke doesn't hesitate.

 

'He leads us.'

 

One pale eyebrow arcs in disbelief.

 

'Forgive me, but I presumed that duty fell to you Miss Griffin?'

 

'It does,' Bellamy interjects, and Clarke can feel his pleasure at Diana's confusion. 'She leads. I lead. We run this camp.'

 

Decisions are being made and broken upon this revelation, Clarke can sense it.

 

'Together?' Dianna's voice is pointedly neutral. 'How interesting. You'll have to tell me all about it, when everything is settled.'

 

...And Clarke seizes upon the chance.

 

'That will require terms. Rules for this… cohabitation.'

 

Beneath the calm facade, Diana's patience is fraying.

 

'Of course,' the woman replies coolly. 'But my people are tired, Clarke. We have trekked many miles to get here; it is time for rest. And _reunion_.' The steely glint returns, even as her tone softens into something almost genuine. 'Many families have made it here today. I brought as many as I could… They have travelled down from space itself to find their children; surely you won't begrudge us all a few hours of respite?'

 

And what can you say to a statement like that without starting a war? Parents on one side and children on the other - the pressure building in between like the prelude to a hurricane...

 

Bellamy's chest presses to her shoulder blade. _We need to talk_. Yes, they do.

 

Ignoring the pinching in her stomach, Clarke nods warily. It is all the encouragement Diana requires.

 

'Set the fires!' she cries in a final, valiant speech. 'We will all bring forth what we can to share. Let us make this a moment of history; a reuniting of our people. The final journey to the Ground is ended, and we have met with our children once more', her arms spread wide, encompassing them all, 'on _Earth_.'

 

A great cheer rises up, exhilaration sparking across invisible boundaries, and Clarke watches the two groups break and blend, becoming indistinguishable as children rush forward into their parents arms, greeting older friends they'd once thought lost forever.

 

 _How thickly does blood run?_  She wonders. _Will they still have each other's backs, should the need arise?_

 

Amidst the privacy of chaos, Bellamy circles to stand in front of her, all playfulness falling fast away.

 

'Octavia and Finn found me. What's going on?'

 

'I don't know,' she answers grimly, 'but something's not right. I can feel it. The silence from the Ark, these people… it's all connected somehow. There's guards here, yes, and a lot of anger - but they aren't the soldiers we were promised. This doesn't read like Jaha. It feels like-'

 

'A coup.'

 

Her skin prickles to hear the word aloud.

 

'Yes, exactly. When Commander Shumway gave you that gun, do you think he was the end of the line?'

 

Bellamy's arms cross defensively. Even now he cannot hide the turmoil he feels over that moment. _Good_ , she thinks. _I was right about you_.

 

'I hardly stopped to ask questions at the time… but no. I doubt he was the mastermind. You think I'm looking at a past employer right now?'

 

'I don't know, maybe…'

 

She remembers that look in Dianna's eyes: the _weighing_ of them as she'd listened to Bellamy speak. She watches him now, a moment too long, and he knows it; she can hear it in his voice when he answers, low and harsh.

 

'Those games won't work for her down here.'

 

But what he really means is, _he_ won't.

 

(She wonders if loyalty always feels this way; like wars could be won on the weight of its presence alone.)

 

Where they go from here is the challenge they now face. How much to give and how much to take... it’s a strategy she understands in principle, but it explodes into giddying complexity in reality. Despite all odds, their new society has much to lose. They are different from the Ark, not just in law but in themselves.

 

Bellamy shifts uneasily beside her.

 

He would rather ignite a war than return to his life of old - she believes in that like she believes in the most fundamental laws of science and nature. What she is more surprised to discover however, is that so would she.

 

Yet this revelation never leaves her lips, for over his shoulder she finally glimpses something - _someone_ \- painfully familiar... and all else fades to faint white noise.

 

It’s the way she moves that marks her out: the intensity of every motion, the rhythm of her steps, the angle of her shoulders. Cloistered at the rear of the exodus, Abigail Griffin is nuclear fission in skin, pinning bandages to the wounded with movements both electric and magnetic. Mindful of her duty, she resists the fray; yet even across the crush of 300 bodies Clarke can feel her searching. And the pain of that bond makes it hard to breathe.

 

It's too much, far too soon. The contrasting twist of her emotions tears a chasm through Clarke's mind. She cannot be a daughter, not now, not when so much else is demanded of her.

 

Her steps fall back.

 

'Clarke?'

 

Against all the impulses of her nature, she retreats.

 

 

Clusters of youth huddle by the roadside back to camp - kids with no family; kids with no trust. Their eyes trace her movements as she strides away, filled with questions that she cannot answer.

 

' _Clarke_.'

 

She hits the gate so hard that splinters snap inside her palms. It takes a moment of useless struggling for her to recognise that structure will not budge because someone else's hands have beaten her to it.

 

'Whoa. Hold on a second,' Bellamy snaps in her ear.

 

The surprise is enough to make her stumble, and he seizes the opportunity to slide in front of the gates.

 

'Get out of my way, Bellamy.'

 

He stares at her in disbelief.

 

'Where the hell are you going?'

 

'I said _get out of my way_.'

 

Between her behaviour and the swelling crowds he makes an unexpected leap.

 

'Your mother,' he breathes. 'She's here?'

 

She hadn't expected he would understand.

 

'Let me through. _Please_. It’s not the right time for this.'

 

But he will not flinch away.

 

'Clarke, come on. You're braver than this.' He shrugs, bemused. 'You know you're going to have to face her eventually.'

 

'Not like this!' The words are high and sharp and embarrassingly revealing. 'I'm not ready. I have no idea how I feel, or what to think...'

 

Suddenly there's a fist in her throat and its catching all her fire; all that passes is a frightened whisper, a truth far too possible to bear.

 

'I don't know if I can forgive her.'

 

_What if I can't? What if I see her and I can't forgive her?_

He runs a hand roughly through his hair before continuing somewhat awkwardly. 'But you love her still. Don't you?'

 

It’s too close, it’s not their way..

 

'Good grief, not you too,' she spits.

 

'What?'

 

'I don't need another delinquent psychiatrist to tell me how I feel.'

 

Raw confusion lessens his guard and she seizes the opportunity - knocking away his arm and darting for camp - but he will not be deterred. The speed of his reflexes is more than a match for her tactics; he has her by the shoulders now and he isn't letting go.

 

'Stop fighting me and _listen_.'

 

And remarkably, she does.

 

'You call out for her when you're sleeping- _no_ , don't try to deny it, I've heard you when I'm doing the rounds. She matters to you, it wouldn't hurt so much if she didn't. You still love her, Clarke. You do. And that matters.'

 

She struggles to find his eyes but the image disconnects with her thoughts.

_Love_.

_Hate_.

 

Irreconcilable, surely. And yet there is such a fine line between them - one she has treaded far too often; wearing a groove through her mind that she falls into now and cannot roll out of.

 

'Clarke, she's your _family_.'

 

Life seeps slowly into focus.

 

 _She thought she hated him once_.

 

'Clarke?'

 

_She doesn't think that anymore._

 

'Look,' she heaves a breath. 'I know how much that means to you - _family_ \- but it shouldn't be enough. It can't be.'

 

 _And yet?_ The question is in his eyes.

 

And yet...

 

'I miss her, ok? She's my _mother_.' She fists a trembling hand against her chest and feels the punch deep inside. 'And it hurts like _hell_. So I must love her. Of course I do. Of course I still love her.'

 

His hand finds her elbow, offering a small moment of steadiness and warmth. And then he lifts his eyes beyond her shoulder (as if he already knows someone is there), and he _nods_ ever so slightly. And her heart… her heart doesn't know whether to sink or soar.

 

'Clarke?'

 

That voice. All the muscles in her body riot at the sound, wanting to run - _away, towards_ \- wanting to fight, to turn, to knock her down (to hold her more tightly than she ever has before).

 

All the gentleness drains from her face as she meets Bellamy's eyes and realises what he's done.

 

'You bastard,' she hisses.

 

He grins lightly, but it's more rue than mirth.

 

'We've all got to face our demons. It's just your turn.'

 

Her hands jerk forward of their own accord as he tries to step away, locking into the open fabric of his jacket

 

'Don't you dare.'

 

He leans in, even as he's tugging loose her hands, and the momentary closeness of him silences her; transforming his whisper into something uncharacteristically gentle.

 

'Be brave, Princess. Turn around.'

 

 

 

It's obvious that Abby Griffin has heard everything. _Damn Bellamy. Damn him to hell_. She's lost the upper ground now, her composure, her _pride._

 

But even this anger cannot last, for her mother is not the woman Clarke remembers. The tight braid, those dark eyes - yes, they are as before. But beneath that, deeper in, there's an exhaustion, a _hollowness_. Clarke knows it well, has seen it seep into the eyes of those sent to Earth with her; a veil settled upon the light of the soul, which tells of horrors, and death, and loss...

 

 _What has her mother seen_?

 

'Mum.'

 

Words spoken aloud, they are what make the moment real. Deep within the shell-shocked dimness of her mother's gaze, a spark ignites.

 

'Oh Clarke.' She speaks through fingers, splayed like a shield across her mouth... and Clarke cannot step away.

 

There is tentativeness to Abby's embrace that breaks her daughter's heart. Memories crowd forth: of fingers braiding her hair and arms holding her as she cries; the hum of lullabies and the thrum of warm laughter; the infallible rhythm of a mother's heart beneath her cheek.

 

All the anger in the world could not protect her from this moment.

 

' _I thought I'd never see you again._ '

 

And as much as she resists it, it feels like coming home.

 

 

 

Abigail Griffin draws away first, but only to trace the bones of her daughter's face.

 

'Look at you.' There's nothing but wonder in her mother's voice, but Clarke shrinks back just the same.

 

 _She doesn't know the half of it; she doesn't see the things I've done_.

 

'There's such strength in you.'

 

 _You gave me that_.

 

'You need to keep that now, more than ever. Diana has… Clarke... There's something you need to know.'

 

And Clarke wants to listen, she knows this is the moment of truth she's been hunting for, but there's something breaking through - a commotion rising from the background and a warning in her mind.

 

                '…don't think so. You can say whatever you need to say out here.'

 

                'I'm afraid that's not possible. Please come this way.'

 

'Clarke, this is important.'

 

                'There's no need to make a scene, Mr Blake.'

 

'Just hold on mum, I need to check-'

 

                '-well you're going to have to, 'cause there's no way-'

 

The crack of metal on bone brings Clarke whirling into focus; latching on too late to the clues that she's been missing.

 

Her mother's arms, which have been resting gently on her shoulders until now, tense down like the bars of a cage.

 

'Clarke, wait-'

 

But words can hardly hold this moment at bay.

 

Her feet are struggling forward before she even finds the source of commotion; heart shuddering with what it already knows. _She should have seen this coming._

 

He's down in the dust between a pair of Diana's guards, blood streaming from his temple, struggling and failing to rise.

 

' _Bellamy_!'

 

Her horrified cry echoes through the clearing like the rip of a bullet, and all around silence starts to spread. It takes precious seconds of struggle for Clarke to even realise that her mother is holding her back.

 

' _Let me go_.'

 

'No, Clarke, honey, _please_ listen to me. You have to stay out of this one. It’s the only way you won't be harmed-'

 

Her mother's words waver away as she looks towards the commotion for the first time since it began.

 

'Mum,' Clarke's voice is hoarse with warning. 'What is going on?'

 

But Abby doesn't even seem to hear her. She's staring at the guards like they're strangers.

 

' _That's_ Bellamy Blake?' she whispers, and there's devastation in her tone that sets all Clarke's nerves to screaming.

 

'Mum, let me go!'

 

With a start, Abby shakes her head like she's throwing loose a nightmare.

 

'You have to let them take him, Clarke. They promised me this. If you stay out of it you won't be harmed. _They promised me_.'

 

Betrayal is a wily blade; it remembers all its past wounds and slits them wide anew.

 

'Did they send you up here to hold me back? To _distract_ me?' Clarke gapes at her mother with increasing dread. 'Did they think I wouldn't fight you because you're my mother?'

 

'I'm doing this for you.'

 

Over her shoulder Clarke sees the guards drag Bellamy to his feet. He staggers between them, but its only act - you don't last long on the ground if you don't learn how to fight while broken. Two steps, three, and his leg shoots out in a well-trained arc, felling one of the men... and the fray is brutally renewed.

 

He fights with open space, with the dust of the earth and strength of hunting on his side.

 

He fights like someone who understands what it is to fist their hands into life and wrestle it for the right to exist, to breathe.

 

And even still, it isn't enough.

 

He falters, if only for a moment, his eyes sliding from the brawl and out across the crowds in some unknown and costly distraction... and in that instant the felling blow is dealt.

 

A rifle butt to the stomach, a boot to the back of his leg, and he's on his knees with a gun at his forehead.

 

 _Don't you know,_ she wants to scream. _Don't you know this can't be taken back._

She whirls on her mother with a shattering finality, wrestling against her hold.

 

'You still don't get it; _this is just like with dad._ ' Her words bite with merciless clarity, tone part way between fury and sorrow. 'There is no necessity great enough to warrant the sacrifice of people who matter to us. We will not be ok if they take him away - _I_ won't be ok - do you understand?'

 

The shock is evident on Abby's face, but she isn't letting go.

 

'You'll understand one day...'

 

' _Mum!_ I swear to god if you side with them on this we are finished.'

 

She means every word and her mother knows it; the silence between them now is like none they've ever known.

 

_This is the price of growing up._

 

The restraining grasp slackens; it's all the assent Clarke needs to twist free, to step away.

 

'Clarke, there's no way you can win this,' comes the final beseeching call.

 

'Perhaps,' she snaps. 'But he needs to know I tried.'

 

_He needs to know that someone from this god forsaken society tried to save him._

 

 

She's running towards the mayhem without a weapon or any kind of plan; darting past Jasper and Monty as they argue vehemently with the adults to let them pass; onwards past where Raven and Miller are ringed within a nest of guards, fists already bloodied as they scrabble to break through. Their rifles are gone, she realises too late - discreetly collected in the name of peace. Who knows if anyone would have the guts to use a weapon anyway; to turn a bullet against the faces that they once called friend and neighbour.

 

Scattered all around the clearing, near on a hundred teenagers are protesting in the gathered crowd, but there's no structure to their dissent and therefore no power.

 

_This is an army without a leader._

_No army at all._

 

The curses beneath her breath are as much for herself as they are for Dianna. _How could she let this happen to them?_

 

Thanks to her proximity with Abby she is already within the blockade of Arkers, but she's also in here on her own... Ahead of her Bellamy is well and truly subdued, swaying with a stunned dizziness that makes her blood burn. Yet even still, his head is shifting sluggishly as the guards confer, his eyes scanning through the gathered crowds...

 

 _For her,_ she realises suddenly. _He's been looking for her._

 

And it is for that look, if nothing else, that she cannot stand aside.

 

 

 

' _Diana_!'

 

She calls for the woman who can turn this all around.

 

' _Diana Sydney_!'

 

Finally she emerges, breezing from amongst the tents that have already been erected so presumptuously on this foreign soil. Her cool gaze is unperturbed by the mayhem she now approaches.

 

'Can I help you, Miss Griffin?'

 

'Release him.'

 

'I'm afraid that's not possible.'

 

'You have _no_ right to arrest one of us.'

 

Dianna surveys Clarke with stony disbelief.

 

'It is not a matter of right, but rather of necessity. Surely, Miss Griffin, you know of Mr Blake's history on board the Ark? This man wanted to kill your Chancellor.'

 

'What he wanted was to protect his sister,' she levels Diana with her most piercing stare. 'It was at another's initiative that the only opportunity to do so was through the Chancellor's death.'

 

The woman shrugs, unaffected. 'Then he was unleashed by another's hand, it changes nothing. When it comes to the choice, his actions were his own. We came to Earth prepared for war, Clarke, but we cannot abide it amongst each other. We need unity here even more than on the Ark, and those who have histories of violent self-interest place that harmony at risk.'

 

'You're the one creating disharmony Diana.'

 

The interference takes Clarke by surprise. Moving in from the sidelines, Abby Griffin takes a stand beside her daughter.

 

'You claim to be opposed to the ruthlessness of Jaha's rule, yet your first act on Earth is one of oppression. Violent self-interest? I could think of a few other names to add to that list...'

 

'Watch yourself, Abigail,' Diana intercedes coldly. 'You too have proved problematic in the past. Do not think that is forgotten. Your insurgence will not be tolerated here.'

 

Clarke shifts instinctively forward but Diana is not interested in family politics; the hearts of the crowd are her true battlefield.

 

'We cannot afford the weakness of anarchy, and those who would threaten to weaken us must be restrained for the good of all.'

 

'Restrained?' Clarke snarls incredulously, gesturing to Bellamy - to the blood and the gun.

 

'No harm will come to him if he cooperates. He needs to understand that.'

 

'No, you need to understand. He is a _leader_ in this camp. What you're doing is an act of war against us.'

 

'Salvation comes at a price, Miss Griffin,' and Dianna's voice is impossibly cold. 'You need us, you know it's true. So the question is, are you willing to pay the cost?'

 

 _No_. _Surely no._

 

But the word isn't spoken aloud. (Because even now, she isn't sure… is she?)

 

To break a deal like this is against everything she's ever known. (She is her mother's daughter after all). Compassion _yes_ , empathy _yes_ , but logic is the deal breaker and concern must be for all.

 

There are laws to her world, even if they're unspoken:

 

You give more than you can.

 

You do what you must.

 

The many always come before the few.

 

And the passions and cares of your own life do not, _cannot_ , matter.

 

 _This_ is how a civilisation survives. Through compromise and sacrifice.

 

The logic of the situation is that they are already in a war. To turn away an offer of help, to accrue another enemy will surely condemn them all.

 

What's more, if she decides to take this road, to sever the ties before they're even bound, who will follow her into such rebellion? So many of the hundred have families here today… Will they turn their faces to their parents' shoulders if she cries resistance?

 

_What kind of choice is this?_

 

To sacrifice him, or risk the rest?

 

She knows what she would have done once, without a second thought…

 

And yet… she knows what kind of civilisation endures from decisions like these. _The Ark._ The culture that sacrificed one hundred children to an unknown fate, all for a few extra breaths of dead air in a dying world.

 

The thoughts and ways of old may be difficult to shake, but so is the taste of freedom, the bonds of partnership, the hope for something different.

 

Those abandoned children have grown up now she realises.

 

This ground is their home and they've made their own rules here.

 

_It's time to make a different kind of choice._

 

 

The words of refusal are on her lips when another voice beats her to the finish line.

 

' _No one's hurting my brother_.'

 

Clarke whips around, breath choking on the sentence of her verdict.

 

 _Blood runs thicker than water._ Oh how could she forget? The little sister that started it all.

 

'How about you step aside, sweetheart?' a guard scoffs gently.

 

Octavia's lips bloom into their sweetest and most terrifying grin.

 

'How about I blow your fucking brains out?'

 

A pair of guards stride forward and Octavia looses a bullet over their heads. Clarke has never been more certain that she's about to watch someone die.

 

'The next one won't miss,' Octavia hisses in warning. 'Now let my brother go.'

 

'Octavia Blake, I presume?' Diana remarks drily, gliding closer to Bellamy and the guards. ' _The famous sister_. I see that recklessness runs in the family line.' She swings her gaze to Clarke. 'This animosity is foolish. I don't want to be your enemy, we desire the same thing here: a future for our people. Surely we are stronger together?'

 

But Clarke isn't listening, because a dishevelled Miller is finally at her side and he's offering her a gun.

 

'We're with you, Clarke,' the young man murmurs. And then, more softly still: ' _please_.'

 

And so they are. _All of them_. Dozens of teens are congregating out of the confusion, forming a determined line behind Raven. It can't be an easy choice to take up resistance against their own families, especially when what Diana offers is so tempting to accept: _the chance to be children again_. To pass on responsibility and the decisions that dictate survival to those seemingly more capable. And yet… here they are, setting their feet resolutely side by side in their best imitation of an army line.

 

She has never been particularly proud to be counted among their ranks before.

 

She doesn't feel that way today.

 

 

'Clarke?' Diana presses in confusion.

 

And Clarke wraps her fingers around the proffered weapon.

 

'The answer is no.'

 

Bellamy's head jerks up in surprise.

 

'We won't pay your cost, we won't lie down for your laws, and we will _not_ abandon our own.'

 

'You're making a mistake.'

 

Clarke chambers a new cartridge and smiles grimly as the remaining delinquents follow her lead with whatever weapons they have scavenged.

 

_They are soldiers now, they have been through wars._

'We survived without you,' she says, 'and we will do so again. This is our home, our world, _our rule_. And we aren't your children any longer.'

 

Murmurs ripple through the assembled crowd of adults, dissent building, parents calling for the guards to lay down their weapons. Diana is unmoved by their pleas, answering only to logic. She counts the guns, tallies the odds. Today at least, the showdown is over.

 

'Cuyler.'

 

A man turns, the guard with a pistol pressed to Bellamy's head.

 

'Yes, Chancellor Sydney?'

 

'Release the boy.'

 

 

 

Octavia is at his side as soon as the guard line breaks.

 

' _You're ok, you're ok, you're ok_.'

 

Clarke can hear the mumbled mantra drawing her in as she approaches.

 

Even when he's swaying on his knees, Bellamy still manages to grin for Octavia.

 

'So my little sister's a total badass,' he rumbles hoarsely. 'Who would have guessed?'

 

'Definitely not you,' she replies, pressing trembling hands to his dusty hair.

 

'Watch it, kiddo.'

 

'A simple 'thank you' would suffice.'

He fishes one hand from his hair and kisses it, despite her wrinkled nose.

 

' _Thank you_.'

 

And she shrugs.

 

'About time I returned the favour.'

 

 

It feels wrong to intrude but Clarke pushes herself forward anyway, aware of the urgent need to get him within camp walls.

 

'Octavia, would you go ahead and set up the med bay for me?'

 

'I don't need the damn med bay,' Bellamy protests from the ground.

 

His sister rolls her eyes above his head.

 

'I'm on it,' she nods, but her hands linger on her brother's shoulders until the final second, barely able to let go.

 

Crouching down slowly, Clarke takes her place. Any words she might have had dissipate into dust at the sight of his ragged face, until all she is left with are the things she cannot say.

 

_I almost lost you._

 

'That was quite the situation she put you in,' and there's a peculiar cautiousness about his tone.

 

Clarke quirks an eyebrow in return.

 

'You too.'

 

Bruised cheeks wince against a careless laugh.

 

'Touché,' he murmurs, but his eyes won't meet hers. 'I didn't think… that is, I didn't expect…'

 

A frown creeps between his eyes as he finally spits it out.

 

'You chose me?'

 

And there it is; the strange, unexpected truth.

 

'I'm not doing this without you,' is all she chooses to say. And that in itself is a strange sort of promise.

 

'You good to walk?' she finally prompts, as if nothing has changed between them; tugging his arm across her shoulders as she helps him to his feet.

 

He stumbles immediately, muscles seizing in the aftermath of the ordeal, and for one brief moment she bears the full weight of Bellamy Blake across her shoulders.

 

...And he is not the burden she imagined.

 

(He is not a burden at all.)

 

'Sorry,' he mumbles, struggling to rebalance his weight, but she doesn't complain.

 

No one watching would guess his weakness with her at his side, and maybe that's the way this goes now. Maybe at the end of the day that's what it means to be partners. Strength where the other fails.

 

She helps him all the way back to camp.

 

It seems a worthy thing to fight for.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**[ Abbey]**

 

Abigail Griffin is escorted through the wall into the delinquent’s camp by two armed teenagers. A disconcerting scenario to say the least, but she doesn't complain for an instant. The remains of the original drop-ship loom before her - the metal coffin in which Jaha and his council condemned these children to die; and yet as she takes in her surroundings she sees little evidence of defeat in the face of such impossible odds. The sturdiness of the perimeter wall, the village of tents constructed from parachute tarpaulin, the signs of food storage, and sanitation, and innovation at every corner attest to more than just determination, but a _skill_ for survival.

 

She's seen things today she never thought she would. _Earth_ , with its mighty forests and roaring streams... But then, the Earth is a something of a phoenix; rebuilding itself ceaselessly through the ages, re-emerging from the ashes that fate and humankind have heaped upon it. That the world could be beautiful again is not such an incomprehensible discovery. But that one hundred delinquent teenagers, abandoned without help of any kind, could rise to such cohesiveness, such _success -_ even after the sheltered lives they'd lead on the Ark... well, that is something she had never expected to see.

 

Even more unbelievable is the source of this unlikely flourishing: the alliance of her daughter and a rebel. She shakes her head in uneasy awe. _Dual leadership_. Even the Ark never attempted more than one Chancellor. Which means there was no precedent for this, they developed it on their own. It's with this realisation that she truly understands: they are not merely a replication of their forebears or the product of their foundations. These children have grown into something greater than the Ark ever conceived, possibly even greater than the Ark itself. And all it took was the aligning of two unlikely people…

 

'Dr Griffin, ma'am,' the young man at her elbow is unfailingly polite, even if his eyes remain wary beneath the black rim of his beanie. 'Would you like to take a seat while you wait for Clarke? She's just finishing up on a few things.'

 

'Thank you,' Abby can't help but smile at the thoughtless generosity with which he drags an upturned crate closer to one of the peripheral campfires for her. She has an unexpected aura of respect from the kids here, and she is not blind to the fact that it has everything to do with their admiration for Clarke.

 

Her seat by the fire is the perfect vantage point from which to view the bustle of camp. Some fifty metres away a much larger central fire crackles against the hide of a roasting deer, and a crew of youngsters are settled on crates around it, cleaning weapons and stripping berries from branches in the last light of the afternoon. Beside them, Bellamy Blake is perched on a felled log, half-heartedly pressing some sort of poultice to his forehead while he barks orders to those handling the weapons.

 

He should be lying down in a med bay after the beating he's had. (Abby later learns that resting by the campfire was a grudgingly-struck compromise from Clarke, after it proved physically impossible for anyone to get him inside the drop-ship as a patient.) Watching the camp's goings on with restless eyes, his disdain for his own his inactivity is palpable, even to her, and reflected in a rapidly shortening temper. Chastising the sharp shooters for mishandling their rifles and pestering the guards to get a watch together on the wall, his generalised annoyance culminates in a hearty bellow for someone to 'turn the deer over for fuck's sake, before it catches on fire like the last one'; a roar which sends half the camp skittering off their seats in alarm.

 

Yet, as crankily as he behaves, there is always someone at his side. Whether it be Clarke or Octavia, or the inseparable pair of goofs who excitedly introduced themselves as Jasper and Monty - accosting Abby with science-related questions until Miller threatened to bash their 'crazy-ass heads' together with his rifle if they couldn't hold their tongues. Whether it be standing at his side or circling close nearby, there's always someone with half an eye on the wounded leader.

 

In fact, the whole camp can hardly stay away.

 

She watches curiously as processions pass by, murmured mantras of 'how's the head, man?', 'glad to see you're ok', 'anything you need?', echoing ceaselessly through the gathering night like the sighing of an endless river. Observing from the sidelines, Abby recognises the restless patterns for what they represent; the reassuring, protective motions of a group of people who have suddenly realised what they nearly lost.

 

They guard him, even in the safety of their own walls, as something irreplaceable; something almost precious. And yet again this destabilises her, the knowledge that this faceless enemy - the man whose selfish destruction nearly cost her life to repair, the insurgent who defied the Ark and commandeered a ship of delinquent children - could be someone else's friend. Her _daughter_ ' _s_ friend. And the cause of such unexpected tenderness in the group around her.

 

He bats them all away and snarls at the attention of course, and yet they fidget at his side regardless; a herd of suicidal forest animals trying to care for a wounded bear.

 

The reality is no less dangerous.

 

'Would everyone quit fussing?' he finally roars, and Jasper jumps in from the sidelines, ushering some space around their leader.

 

'Alright, alright, everyone back up. Nothing to see here. He's fine. Just your run-of-the-mill pissed off co-captain.'

 

Abby can't see Bellamy's expression but something prompts the younger boy to duck swiftly out of firing range, narrowly avoiding the half-hearted missile of Bellamy's discarded poultice. From his distance of safety Jasper offers a jaunty salute; retreating still further to confer with Monty at the base of the drop-ship. The two boys whisper heatedly, the camp's herbalist attempting to pass a steaming cup into his friend's hands - a gesture that is met with vehement denial. A third boy appears beside them (none other than Raven's precious Finn, as Miller soon informs her) heading down the ramp, and the two friends latch onto his arms with barely concealed relief. Abby averts her gaze with a smile at their antics, turning her face instead to the violet sky.

 

The evening air is a silky coolness on her skin, so unlike the deadness she breathed upon the Ark, and she wonders how this can be the same element; the same fundamental compounds of nitrogen, oxygen, and carbon dioxide, now rendered barely recognisable in their natural form. The wind is here too, not the sluggish thrust of ventilator fans but a whispering, living thing in constant motion. Opening her mouth she breathes just for the pleasure of it, and the sky tastes like dirt and leaves and greenness upon her tongue. Who would have guessed that even the air could carry the tang of freedom?

 

' _Collins, I swear to god if you push that bowl in my face one more time I'm gonna put you on latrine duty for a month_.'

 

Bellamy's irritated growl jolts her from her reverie. Finn is standing at Bellamy's side with the ill-fated cup in hand, determinedly arguing the merits of its contents to a very unimpressed patient. Clarke descends from the drop-ship just as Bellamy's fist locks threateningly in the collar of his would-be-saviour's jacket, and she makes it to the campfire just in time to prevent the other boy from hurling the contents of the cup into his attacker's face.

 

'It's alright, Finn. I'll take him from here,' she says, laying an apologetic hand upon his arm.

 

Retrieving the cup she settles beside her co-leader with a look that could make stones sweat.

 

'Oh come on,' Bellamy huffs at her expression, 'no one in their right mind would drink Monty's tea. I don't care what properties it has, nothing's worth the taste.'

 

She barely moves, just a slight purse of the lips, a tilt to the eyebrow.

 

The bowl clatters against the wooden bench less than a minute later, emptied to the last drop.

 

No matter her disapproval, Abby cannot help but smile.

 

 

 

Once night truly falls the camp starts to lull. Chores are packed away, the deer is divvied out, and Clarke finally approaches her mother with an offering of food.

 

'Hungry?'

 

But Abby can't think of eating.

 

'I'm so sorry Clarke... about today... I shouldn't have assumed- _God_ , it's all turned into such a mess.' She turns her gaze, beseeching upon her daughter. 'What can I do, to make you trust me?'

 

'You can stop apologising,' her daughter's voice is firm but measured. 'Stop saying sorry and start getting things right. Don't make choices for me, the laws of old don't apply down here.' She raises a finger at her mother's expression, 'but that doesn't mean we're lawless.'

 

The plate of food is extended once more, and this time Abby takes it.

 

'Give us a chance, and we'll do the same for you.' And then Clarke smiles - the daughter she recalls - reaching forward to whisk a chunk of meat from her mother's plate. 'Now try the deer, it's amazing.'

 

So she does, charred meat scorching on her tongue, and just like everything on Earth its more than she ever imagined.

 

 

 

With an empty plate between them Clarke rises slowly to her feet.

 

'He's not in the finest of moods but… there's someone you need to meet.'

 

The deer turns queasily in Abby's stomach as she follows her daughter across camp. The time of reckoning has come and she still doesn't know what to make of him.

 

He nods warily when she approaches. 'Councillor Griffin.'

 

She doesn't miss the emphasis he places on her title - a warning that he remembers: what she is and where's she from. She doubts he's the forgiving kind. Yet even through the ill-temper and the guardedness, she cannot shake the impression of this stranger as the young man who halted her daughter's flight; who challenged her so intuitively and brought forth those precious words - _of course I love her_ \- that were everything Abby's battered soul had longed to hear.

 

'Bellamy Blake,' she nods in return. 'You're not what I was expecting.'

 

And for a split second she witnesses the true impact of her words - an almost innocent widening to his eyes, an unmistakable longing to be something other than the legend he has created for himself. But then he blinks and all that remains is the grin, the type of self-asserted smile that says he walks with demons and doesn't burn.

 

'Actually, I'm exactly what you were expecting,' he retorts on instinct.

 

But then Clarke clears her throat in a pointed signal of frustration and the darkness in him falters, shifts yet again… and he sighs somewhat tiredly.

 

'But apparently that's not _all_ I am.'

 

_No. It's definitely not._

 

'Will you be staying in this camp, Councillor ?'

 

Abby thinks twice about how she answers .

 

'I'm not sure,' she chooses carefully, 'Will I?'

 

He measures her, dark eyes neutral.

 

'Perhaps.'

 

Beside him, Clarke rolls her eyes.

 

'Alriiight then, I think that's enough discomfort for one evening.' She touches Bellamy's shoulder, almost thoughtlessly, as she leaves him. 'Mum, I know Raven's been dying to see you.'

 

She gestures across the campfire and the young woman in question jumps to her feet, baring a grin that could ignite entire galaxies.

 

'What's up Mrs G?'

 

 _Stars_ , but she's missed that girl.

 

As Raven settles by her side, words exploding forth like the sparks of a firework, Abby keeps half an eye on her daughter's antics: coordinating the first night's watch, rounding up the youngest of the group and sending them to their tents.

 

'You too,' she hears Clarke say, snatching at Bellamy's arm as he steps stubbornly towards the wall.

 

'I'm fine, Clarke.'

 

'Nuh ah, not tonight. Doctor's orders.'

 

Surprisingly enough he gives in without further fight. But then, it doesn't take a medic's eye to note the wince and stiffness of his walk. They gave him more than he deserved.

 

Clarke moves to take his arm when he stumbles, but here he draws the line.

 

'I'm not a bloody invalid, Griffin.'

 

She trails him like a shadow nonetheless.

 

When she's still beside him at the entrance to his tent he pauses in irritation and sweeps his arm theatrically inside. They're some distance away now but Abby can still catch most of his words.

 

'…like to plump my pillows before I lie down? ...under the mattress for hidden assassins? Come on Princess, don't get negligent on me now-'

 

But his words cut short as Clarke steps forward with fearless and sudden certainty to wrap her arms around his waist.

 

Shadow and flame, the flicker together like something just beginning, and Abby can't contain her agitation at their closeness. She's seen so many different faces to this man today: antagonistic, vulnerable, _kind_ … which one is real, does Clarke even know? She cannot bring herself to trust him, and yet… Clarke evidently does, and her daughter is no fool.

 

Raven, who's been watching idly from Abby's side, leans forward at the sight; squinting through the gathering twilight.

 

' _Shit_ ,' she murmurs, her breath hissing on an incredulous whisper. ' _She didn't._ '

 

Bellamy's response seems just as incredulous. For quite some time he merely stands there, eyes struck to startled wildness, dark and deep as the furthest reaches of space. Abby can't explain it but he seems almost… _frightened_ in that moment.

 

The seconds pass unrequited and through it all Clarke never falters - never loses her nerve or breaks away; like she always knew it would be hard, always knew she'd have to wait... until finally, _finally_ he moves. And when he does Abby thinks that maybe she understands his hesitance, because when his arms come up and curve across Clarke's back he doesn't simply hold her, he _envelops_ her; fingers curling in the fabric of her shirt with a painful desperation, lips pressing like prayers to the curve of her shoulder - and it _tells._ It tells so much more than she knows he wants to give.

 

'Well damn,' Raven murmurs again. 'I didn't think they had it in them.'

 

'It's just a hug…' Abby retorts, waiting for agreement from their friend.

 

But Raven shakes her head, eyes distant in their thoughtfulness.

 

'Nothing's every ' _just_ ' between those two.'

 

Bellamy's mouth moves quietly in the shadows, and even though it should be impossible from this distance, Abby fancies that she hears a whisper of three achingly lonely words.

 

 _You chose me_.

 

And as much as she hates to admit it, she thinks that Raven may be right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DON'T GET OVER-EXCITED!! This is not a proper update, in fact its more of an epilogue...  
> My darling Maddie (manycoloureddays) challenged me on tumblr to write a Bellamy POV scene for this story, and this is the scene I chose. It was waiting to be told. I thought those of you who enjoyed the original story might appreciate it :)

* * *

**[ Bellamy]**

 

She's still beside him at the entrance to his tent and he pauses in irritation at the flaps.

 

‘ _What now, Clarke_?'

 

His injuries have shortened an already wick-thin temper, and he sweeps his arm dramatically inside with mock invitation as he continues.

 

'Would you like to plump my pillows before I lie down? Check under the mattress for hidden assassins?'

 

She's watching him with a surprising stillness for all his taunting. Normally she flares as bright as he does when he trails the bait like this, her intolerance for his 'theatricalities' as she calls them having been well-established through a history of arguments concluding sharply in 'oh honestly, you are _such_ a drama king.' But her eyes are a different kind of thoughtful tonight.

 

'Come on Princess, don't get negligent on me now-'

 

He could never have seen it coming: this sudden fierce urgency with which she steps forward and ensnares him in her arms. Their height difference is so often forgotten (she takes up far too much space in his world for someone so small), but to see the crown of her head beneath his chin, the feel of her heart against his stomach… it ignites a yearning that he should never be allowed to feel.

 

And all he wants to say is, _stop. You'll get blood on your clothes_.

 

(As if that would ever frighten off someone like her.)

 

It’s a an echo of a greater truth though, one he doesn't like to dwell on, yet the events of today have made impossible to avoid. He is as cursed as men can come, trailing blood in the place of footprints, stumbling after broken things and merely making them more broken.

 

He doesn't want that for her. He doesn't want _him_ for her.

 

His arms hold to his sides, silent pleas forming an endless mantra in his mind.

 

 _Give up, give up, give up_ …

 

But she doesn't. She holds him. She waits. (She is never what he expects.)

 

Every part of him hurts, every muscle, every bone… except where she is touching.

 

He is the one to give up in the end, to give _in_. The warmth of her burns through the worn-down fabric of her shirt, welcoming his arms as he lifts them up to hold her (and the stars know, there's a hint too much prayer behind this movement than a godless man should feel).

 

This sensation… it's like being reminded that you're cold, after freezing for so long that you've forgotten what skin should feel like. And this is why he held off - this tentative movement, this hint of a feeling can never be enough for him; his response to it is irrepressible, revealing, _dangerous_. His head lowers until it joins hers, face pressed to the curve between her neck and her shoulder. There is a scent there, beneath the dust and sweat of such a day, and it is _her_ , and he _recognises_ it.

 

To care like this can be used against a person; he knows this too deeply, fears it constantly with Octavia. But at the end of a day such as this he bows his head and gives himself a moment's reprieve. No one else will know _, just her_ , and against all odds he knows she will protect that. She proved as much today.

 

 _No one's ever tried to save him before_.

 

He holds on tight to the unexpectedness of that truth, buries it in his lungs, exchanges it for three impossible words.

 

_'You chose me.'_

 

(He is not the first to let go.)


End file.
